


Functionism

by spockandawe



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Crossing Timelines, Death, Doctors & Physicians, Dystopia, M/M, Manipulation, Mnemosurgery, Multiple Universes Colliding, Politics, Punishment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-09-16 14:14:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9275678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spockandawe/pseuds/spockandawe
Summary: A series of one-shots exploring ideas revolving around the functionist timeline, both involving characters from that timeline and characters from the original universe interacting with that timeline.





	1. Tailgate, Cyclonus, and Tailgate

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't going to have any rhyme or reason to how it's assembled, and I can't guarantee internal consistency if I get interesting ideas that happen to contradict each other. This is all about having fun!! Mostly by seeing how many of my favorite characters I can make miserable!
> 
> Stories that involve potentially sensitive topics will have warnings for those topics in the notes at the beginning of those individual chapters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for injury, illness, and death being a pretty central part of this story
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/155661940181/relationship-tailgatecyclonus-characters)

For a little while, you’re distracted by the new Cybertron. Or the… _different_ Cybertron? It doesn’t look all that different from what you remember before. And this time, you don’t have to worry about things like, you know. A job! Figuring out how life works!

Okay, to be fair, at the moment you’re _maybe_ a little occupied by trying not to be killed. By—soldiers? Police? You’re not sure what to call them but they’re a little. A little murder-y.

Not that you have to be worried! Just look at what all of you just survived! What most of you just survived. You still keep expecting to see Skids when you turn around and—Yeah. But the point is that you guys can take on practically _anything_. That’s what you were trying to get at. Cyclonus has been trying to keep you away from the action ( _trying_ to keep you away), and now that things have calmed down a little, he won’t stop _fussing_ , in that way where he acts like he isn’t fussing at all. You’re not sure how to feel about that.

But! Focus! New Cybertron, new things to see. Even if it’s just limited to the things you can see from this deserted building. You wish you’d studied history more, or… at all (you’ve been busy!). It would be nice to know what things have changed. Though does that makes sense? It’s the same year as it’s always been, just a different version of that year. You think. You’re mostly just pretty confused, but everything about this Cybertron is _fascinating_ , and the most fascinating thing of all is watching Cyclonus’s face as he takes it all in.

So it’s a little surprising when he turns away and heads back away from the window. He doesn’t go far, just back to where Rewind is sitting. After a klik, Brainstorm joins them. You wonder if you should go over too (did he want to talk to them without you? would you be intruding?), but before you can make up your mind, Cyclonus is already coming back your way.

“You’re out there,” is the first thing he says.

Blunt! You’d never expect _that_ from him, haha. But he is right. “I hadn’t thought of that,” you say. Which you hadn’t. Being in the past was different, but this is the present. So you suppose— But wait. “Wouldn’t I have detonated my rations by now?”

He says, “Would you have been able to travel?”

Ha, _nope_. It still makes your fuel tank turn to remember looking down and seeing your legs just… stop. You try, “Maybe someone would have found me?” But you can’t even finish that thought. Not on the Mitteous Plateau.

Cyclonus is still watching you closely. You know, sometimes it would be nice if his face was a little easier to read. After a quiet moment, he asks, “Do you want to go look?”

That’s not even a question, even if the idea of actually doing it is kind of sort of terrifying. You freeze up for a few nanokliks, but you say yes before you can talk yourself out of it.

With just the two of you to worry about, it doesn’t take too-too long to sneak out of Iacon. It’s a longish flight out to the Mitteous Plateau, so! Lots of time to talk yourself into being nervous. More nervous. _Extra_ nervous.

You’re chattering, even _you_ can tell you’re chattering, but Cyclonus doesn’t tell you to stop. Or even act annoyed. You can see the terrain starting to change underneath you, and, and you _know_ you aren’t even to the plateau yet, and you actually made it pretty far before things went bad, but. Still. _Chattering_.

By the time you actually get to the Mitteous Plateau, you’ve gone so far into jittery that you’ve come all the way around to being way too quiet. Which just makes it extra obvious you’re off-balance. So that’s great! But Cyclonus doesn’t call attention to that either, and while you’re still stuck trying to sort out coordinates and where you’d been coming from and where you’d been going and how far you’d gotten—Cyclonus apparently remembers better than you, and heads off on his own without making you fumble through all the calculations.

He even knows where to land. And once he’s gotten you down on the ground, you _finally_ get your bearings. It’s changed a little, of course. It’s been, you know. A few million years. But nothing much comes out this way except idiots (you), and nothing has changed the landscape except time.

And you even find your hole! You think. The one you exploded. Not that you _recognize_ it exactly. But it’s pretty much the only thing out here that looks like it’s changed since the planet was created.

See though, you only _think_ it’s your hole. Because you’re not in it. And your processor freezes up there, and you apparently lose all your critical thinking skills, because Cyclonus is the one to carefully slip down into the ground and actually look around.

You manage a belated, “Be careful—”   _Dumb_.  He knows what he’s doing way better than you ever did.

He barely even fits down there, really. You should have been the one doing this, but you’re still trying to find your balance and figure out how to start figuring this out when he bends down and picks up a rock from a dark corner of the hole.

And no, not a rock at all. It’s just a very dirty piece of _metal_. It’s been half melted, and isn’t anything recognizable, but you can’t think of many idiots who’d be bringing metal _anything_ out here (it’s you, you’re the idiot).

So that’s—wow. You  are here somewhere. And… alive? You were alive enough to set off your energon rations, apparently. And it sure looks like you were alive enough to get yourself out of the hole. So maybe someone _did_ find you after all! Or, more realistically, you probably ran out of fuel and are lying around somewhere nearby. Here!

You don’t even have to figure out how to ask Cyclonus to stay and poke around the landscape with you, because the first thing he says when he gets himself back up on the ground is, “Where should we start?”

Sometime soon, you’ll figure out how to tell him how grateful you are. You send him off towards where the Ark would have been. The direction you should have _theoretically_ headed. If, you know, you hadn’t been so disoriented you didn’t know which way was up.

So yeah, you decide that given your luck and history, you maybe want to look in the _opposite_ of the right direction.

And you’re the winner! Slash loser. Because even moving slow and testing the ground as you go, it only takes a few kliks to spot yourself, tucked under a rock outcropping, all grimy and definitely not awake. And minus some legs. But undeniably _you._ In the exact wrong direction from where you would have been trying to go. But still!!

You call Cyclonus over and start trying to dust off—him? you? This is—wow. You’re still not sure what to do about this, or what it’s going to mean, or anything. Just…   _wow_.

But when Cyclonus gets to you and reaches out to turn other-you over, something— something is wrong. You can see the way he freezes for half a nanoklik, and the way his face goes extra flat and unreadable as he picks the other you up.

You try, “Cyclonus?”

He glances at you for a moment before he turns his optics back to the you he’s holding. But he doesn’t say anything.

“What is it?” Still no answer. And. And you’re not _trying_ to get upset or worried or anything, but you don’t know what’s _happening._ You slip your hand up under his arm, just so your fingers curl around the edges of his armor. Just enough that, you know. You’re _there_. He still hasn’t looked away from the other you. You try again. “What’s wrong?”

 _Finally,_ he looks over at you. He says, “I’m sorry,” and bends to carefully place other-you back down on the ground.

“Sorry? Sorry why?” It isn’t— You don’t understand, you don’t know what he means— “Cyclonus?”

He turns his optics to you again, and you still, still can’t _read him,_ his face is too blank. And he just shakes his head.

Okay, so. Maybe you understand. Maybe you don’t _want_ to understand. “We can take him back to the others, right? Get him to Ratchet.?” You don’t even sound convincing to yourself. You can’t look away from the other you there on the ground. _Not_ unconscious. You grab blindly for Cyclonus’s hand and try to focus on the feeling of his fingers curling around yours.

Eventually, you manage, “How?”

You can feel him shift as he turns toward you again, but you can’t quite get yourself to look up at him. He says, “Cybercrosis, I imagine.”

“Oh,” you say faintly.

You don’t really like remembering what that was like. The way it felt like you were just, you know, running behind on your maintenance or needing a little tune-up. Until it just _kept_ getting worse, until you knew that it was never going to get better, until your body started giving out entirely, and nobody was even able to reassure you that everything was going to be okay, because everyone _knew_ how it was going to end—

You can’t take your optics off the other you. Blind and deaf with all your joints breaking down until they finally stopped working. And not even knowing what was _happening,_ not without a doctor to tell you. Not waking up and being afraid Cyclonus left while you were asleep. Waking up and knowing that nobody was here and nobody was ever going to be here.

Way too late, you realize that your grip is denting Cyclonus’s fingers. You guiltily yank your hand away. He isn’t saying a word, just quietly watching you. You can’t quite look at him, and you don’t want to look at, at your body. _The_ body. You mean. Instead, you end up staring off into the distance at nothing at all, which is probably about twenty times as awkward as anything else you could have done.

Cyclonus shifts, and you jump, but he’s only stretching his hand out to you again. And you can see the dents, you can see the damage you just did, but you can’t stop yourself from reaching out to take his hand again.

Your vox box is completely locked up, you don’t think you could say a single word without it glitching out. But Cyclonus is easy to be quiet with. He’s still watching you even though you still haven’t even properly looked at him, just patiently holding you hand.

After a klik he says, “Do you want to leave?”

You jump. Again. “Oh— I—” And yeah, there goes your vox box. You reset it and try again. “I. Sorry, we. We can go—”

He doesn’t budge. And he’s still watching you. Reluctantly, you drag your optics upward to meet his.

Cyclonus says, “Do you _want_ to leave?”

You’re still holding onto him too tightly. But you’re not leaving dents this time, and you can’t bring yourself to let go of his hand. It takes you a few moments to try to think through what you actually feel and think and want right now. And you don’t really get anywhere. But eventually, you do manage a nod.

Cyclonus doesn’t really make any conversation on the flight back to the others. But that just means you don’t feel like you have to be making conversation either. This trip took long enough that the sun is starting to set. At least like this, you can just sit back against Cyclonus’s frame, and you don’t have to do anything but feel the vibration of his engine while you stare out the window. You spend the flight back to the city quietly sitting there, leaning into him, just watching the sky slowly go dark.


	2. Pharma and Ratchet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/155792008626/relationship-pharmaratchet-rating-t-words)

Ratchet’s day begins before yours, by simple virtue of his insistence on fitting two jobs into a single lifetime. You wake up when he rolls out of the berth, but when you check your chronometer— _no._ You absolutely _refuse_ to be awake yet.

So you doze while you listen to him quietly moving about the room. It never takes him long to get ready in the mornings. It’s only a few kliks until you hear him step to the side of the berth, and he gently touches your shoulder. “Pharma.”

You let your optics drift online, stretch, and smile up at him.

He smiles back, but he’s all business when he says, “I’m heading out. I’ll be at—”

That’s as far as he gets before you reach up to wrap an arm around his neck and pull him down against you.

He sighs, but doesn’t fight it. He kisses you once, lightly, and begins again. “I’ll be at my clinic for a few cycles before I go up to the council offices.” He goes on, listing surgery times, key appointments, plans for the day. And then a few more cycles down in Dead End in the evening, of course.

You knew most of this, and you’re locking the rest of his schedule into your processor, but you still say, “No,” and put your other arm around his neck.

He indulges you for a few nanokliks more, kisses you again. Then he gently untangles your arms, kisses you one last time, and then he’s gone.

You’d still rather not be awake, but you know you’re not going to get any more recharge at this point. You dawdle with your energon and with the polish, spend a little while reviewing medical records you already know by heart. But there’s only so much time you can waste. Nobody will be _expecting_ you at your offices for a cycle or two, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t things you can be accomplishing.

And when you get to the council building, you don’t even make it to your office before being notified that Senator Skybreaker would like to reschedule his appointment, and requests that you to come to his offices at your earliest convenience. That sort of request barely qualifies as a _request_ at all, so you sigh and turn to go see him.

When you reach his door, you pause to run a slow vent cycle and clear your face, then from the moment you step into his office, you’re all smiles and deference. One look at his face tells you that it’s his joint freeze again. Of _course_ it is. He needs to have all his servos replaced, but he insists that the problem is with his bearings and won’t let you give him the surgery that would _actually_ solve this issue.

You start with his legs. That way he can’t see your face while you take care of this incredibly pointless waste of your time. By the time you move up to his arms, you’ve worked through the worst of the irritation. And the aches have eased up enough for Skybreaker to be pleasant again—or the closest thing to pleasant he can manage.

It starts with pointed questions about where Ratchet is. You’re honest enough; it would be too dangerous to lie about this. He’s at his charity clinic. And of course, the good senator immediately begins asking you whether the council is supposed to be happy that their chief medical officer is wasting his talents on mechs who can’t fulfill a function well enough to afford a doctor, what _you_ think about your conjunx shirking his duties, whether the people who raised him to this position should tolerate this sort of blatant disrespect.

While the senator rails, you quietly, calmly work your way down his arm. When he finally gives you an opening to respond, you’ve just reached his hand. Your optics are on your work as you slip a delicate tool into the narrow joints of one finger, but all your attention is on Skybreaker.

You sigh, with a deliberate smile.“He does certainly like to spend time at his clinic when he has no official duties to attend to.” Fondness and exasperation, carefully balanced. And Skybreaker—he’s a functionist extremist, you can use that. “It’s always been that way, I’m afraid. He’s just so thankful for the talents he was forged with, it’s impossible to get him to spend his free time on anything else. It’s almost… an act of worship.” If Ratchet could hear you talking that way, the things he'd say would probably strip your paint. That thought is enough to make your smile soften out into something genuine.

The senator doesn’t look entirely convinced. You add, “And in that part of the city, there’s no shortage of mechs in need of a doctor.”

Ah yes, that gets you an unkind laugh from Skybreaker.

You’ve just finished the last joint of his last finger, and you take his hand, turning it delicately, examining it. “If you feel he’s neglecting his duties in any capacity, I’m sure he would be eager to address your concerns.” And your timing is artful as your turn your optics up to his. “Or—if you have any needs that aren’t being met... I’m sure I would be delighted to assist you. In _any_ way.”

Overacted, but that’s the only way you’d be able to get through to Skybreaker. And he does take your meaning. The way he looks at you as you take care of his other arm— Not the way you thought your day would go. You carefully maintain your cloying smile as you finish taking care of his joints. But this is fine. You can use this. It was about time you started cultivating new supporters, and if you can persuade him to let you replace his servos, you can probably hold him for some time.

You make your excuses and go on your way before he can press you too much further. You’ll have to be careful with how you keep him at arm’s length until you can afford to let him slip away, but he’ll be a useful tool.

After that, you don’t have much time before your first planned surgery of the day. It’s a fuel pump replacement, routine, but dealing with Senator Dust Storm never goes as quickly as it ought to. You’re forced to waste half a cycle dodging his advances, and all through that you have to simper and flutter over the _honor_ of his attentions. But although you only have that one little hook in his vanity, he still hasn’t noticed that you’ve barely even let him get a hand on your frame.

Once you finally have him offline, you take your time with the surgery. It’s worth it, just not having to listen to him _talk_. Ratchet’s in the building now, and you send him a few comms while you work. He scolds you for talking to him during a surgery, and you tease that it’s very unprofessional, what kind of awful role models could you have had to teach you such dreadful habits?

Of course, that peace only lasts until Dust Storm is back online and you’re making your last check to be sure all his systems are in order. Trying to get away from him is almost as difficult as getting him into surgery was in the first place. You’re sure to mention that your dear, _wonderful_ conjunx just arrived from his charity clinic, and isn’t that just the most _darling_ hobby for him to have? It doesn’t make Dust Storm any less shameless, and by the time you finally manage to get away, you’re exhausted.

As you make your way back to the office, you wonder if you can afford to cut Dust Storm loose. If you just did it on your own— He’d take offense and hold a grudge. Too dangerous. But if _you_ found a way to take offense at something _he_ did— That has potential. Especially if you can make him believe he has a chance of winning you back. If you handled this right, you might even have someone who would defend the clinic without having to string him along. But you regretfully set that idea aside for the moment. Maybe if you can get a solid hold over Skybreaker. For now, it’s a risk you can’t afford to take.

You have a little while before your next appointment to catch up on your correspondence. It’s less draining to balance all the players against each other like this, but everything is so much less… _certain_ than when you can be there physically to judge their reactions and tailor your performance. When you look at your schedule for the next few days, it looks as though you should be seeing everyone _critical_.

And then a klik later you go back and add in an appointment for Senator Silvershot. Just to be safe. You send him a ping asking if he’s free for a routine checkup in two days, and the message you get back is so suggestive you don’t bother replying. Maybe you can take pretend offense at _him_. At least you have a surgery scheduled right after that appointment, so you’ll have a ready-made excuse to leave quickly. And you really ought to see about feeling out that new senator from Vos. What was his name? Calamity? Well that sounds like it will be a calm, relaxing time, you’re already looking forward to it. You have a headache.

You can’t help sending a comm to Ratchet that people noticed he was at his charity clinic, and immediately regret it. He doesn’t seem bothered when he replies, he just asks whether there were any problems. No. There aren’t any problems. You’re making sure of that.

He asks if you want to come assist in a surgery he has scheduled in a cycle, and— You _wish_ you could. It isn’t as if either of you needs an assistant, but there’s something calming about standing across from each other, optics on your patient, working in perfect sync. But you have a surgery of your own, and one you absolutely cannot reschedule.

The senators are one thing. They have… some power. Just enough to keep them occupied. Enough to have a small little clinic destroyed. For example. But the _Council_ is another thing altogether. It isn’t an issue of keeping the clinic hidden from them, and it _absolutely_ isn’t an issue of persuading them that they should let the clinic stand to make you _happy._ All you can do is take care of your duties to the best of your abilities, and hope one insignificant charity clinic remains an issue too unimportant for them to address.

And now you need to operate on Six-of-Twelve. Not the most dangerous mech on the Council, and not the most unpredictable. But he tends to propose more legislation than the others do. That could either work in your favor or against it.

There’s no simpering here, no preening or flirting. You’re all brisk professionalism, tempered with the respect due to— the respect _expected from_ a member of the Council. Six-of-Twelve doesn’t make any casual conversation, only asks a few questions about the planned surgery. It isn’t a major procedure at all, simply the replacement of several servos in his lower legs. You do this every few years, these days, and you’re almost certain this wouldn’t even be a problem if he ever made use of his alt mode. But the last time you made the mistake of suggesting that, you were told in no uncertain terms that it wasn’t your place to dictate how a member of the Council serves their function.

You managed to bite your tongue before telling him that making simple healthy use of your own body isn’t the same as _filling your function—_ Probably better than Ratchet would have done, especially considering his reaction when you’d gotten home that night and told him about it. No, you know when it’s unsafe to push any further. If having an unnecessary surgery every few years is supposed to be more efficient than using your alt mode every once in a while, you aren’t going to risk yourself arguing the point.

It’s been… at least a few hundred years since that happened. But you’re still uneasy with how closely Six-of-Twelve observes you. It makes you wish you had an excuse to put him offline while you work. Instead, he sits there, silently watching you. The surgery isn’t difficult, and you don’t have to say a word until you finish closing up his frame and tell him that you’re done. But it’s still more exhausting than anything you’ve done yet today.

When you’re finally able to leave, you want nothing more than to find an excuse to go dawdle by Ratchet’s offices, see if you can catch him for a klik or two before he has to go to his next appointment. But if you go now, he’ll be able to tell something is wrong. You satisfy yourself with comms instead. First, you bait him conversation with a message that you miss him. And of course he responds to _that_ , even if it’s only to tell you that he knows how to recognize a trap when he sees one. You still spend kliks needling him about how _dreadfully_ unprofessional it is to use his comms during surgery.

By the time Ratchet’s surgery is finished and he’s threatening to come see you in person, you feel like yourself again. But you have to regretfully tell him that you need to go to _your_ next appointment. And given your schedule and his schedule—It looks like you won’t be seeing each other face to face until you go home. You try not to be too disappointed. This isn’t at all unusual, but it’s harder when you thought you might have had a chance of seeing him during the day.

At least the next appointment isn’t going to be difficult. It’s only a routine check-up, nothing important. Only an excuse. And with Chief Enforcer Onyx, you don’t have to worry about playing the coy little flirt, or pretending you’re hungry for his attentions. You don’t even have to pretend to _like_ him.

Of course, it’s a balancing game of a different sort. Onyx _has_ an aemula endura already—not that it gives him any pause—and you don’t have one of your own. You can’t dance around Ratchet as an excuse to keep your distance, and you have less excuse to pretend ignorance as to Onyx’s true intentions. You have to hold him at arm’s length on your own, while still making yourself more enticing than his aemula. It’s _doable,_ of course. But it is tiring.

And it’s an old dance. Setting yourself in stable orbit might work for someone as slow on his feet as Silvershot. But Onyx is sharp enough to notice delaying tactics, and he’s pushing harder. You _have_ had him in hand, for some time. It takes you off-guard when out of nowhere he brings up Ratchet’s clinic.

You deflect, but cautiously. Onyx must know by now that threatening Ratchet wouldn’t go over well as a flirtation with you. There has to be another level to this.

But he laughs off your answer and says, “So protective! It’s charming, really it is.” He props his chin up on his hand and smiles at you. “I’ve been hearing so much about him from you, it has me quite intrigued. You ought to bring him along the next time we meet like this. I’d love to get to know him the same way I know… _you._ ”

You don’t react outwardly, you _can’t_ afford to show that upsets you, and it’s even more dangerous to act as, as though you want to pull _Ratchet_ into these games. Half your attention is on the verbal sparring with Onyx, and the rest is on figuring out how to fix this. By the time you make your excuses and leave, you haven’t had any luck on finding a situation, short of giving Onyx what he wants. And—no.

If you had to cut him loose, you could. But making enemies is dangerous, especially an enemy who just, _just_ mentioned you ‘protecting’ Ratchet. Your next appointment is routine, boring, and you don’t need to play any games. No, you just spend your time thinking about this _other_ game that Onyx is trying to seize control of.

By the time you’re finally making your way back to your office, you think you may have an answer. You need to extract yourself from this, find an excuse to put more distance between you and Onyx. You think… you need to get closer to Onyx’s aemula.

Onyx might be sharp, but Longclaw isn’t. But what he lacks in basic intelligence, he makes up for in intractable stubbornness and a sense of entitlement the size of Luna I. All you’ll need to do is subtly convince him that you’ve secretly pined for him for years and _years_ , and nothing will change his mind. You can deny it all you want and Onyx can argue that he’s wrong—he knows you well enough to know you have better taste than _that—_ but Longclaw will never admit he might be mistaken.

With any luck, the fallout from that inevitable fight will echo through the whole Senate. You’ll certainly be able to use it as an excuse to pull away from Onyx and make it out to be _his_ fault. And you'll make it clear that there’s the smallest, _slightest_ possibility he might be able to win you back—but only if he makes you very, very happy, of course. Depending on how far the fight spreads, you might even be able to use it as an excuse to put space between you and Dust Storm. Or Silvershot. Or any number of other officials who are too forward for their own good.

Once you get back to your desk, you’re decided on that course of action. Which means you have an _additional_ mech you have to court, but you have to do it in a way his aemula won’t notice. You sit heavily in your chair, dim your optics, and pinch the bridge of your nose. You need to get this moving. Tomorrow?

No, you immediately put together a message to Senator Longclaw that you’ve been reviewing his records following his surgery—when was it? a lunar cycle ago?—and that you’re worried about the possibility of a rust infection. Can he possibly spare the time for an appointment with you this evening?

You’re ready with plenty of explanations for why this only just now became an issue you were worried about. But you don’t even get an opportunity to use your excuses, he isn’t at all suspicious. The medical part of things is simple enough, you only need to open his frame and poke around while you flirt with him with less and less subtlety. You think— You _think_ he’s beginning to catch on by the time you finally give up for today. But you still schedule an additional appointment for him in two days, just to be sure you’ve drilled this into his head. Hopefully it doesn’t take long for things to explode between him and Onyx.

And by the time you finally, _finally_ finish for the evening, it’s— later than you expected. Much later. Ratchet might even be home from Dead End by now.

You feel just about dead on your feet, and your processor is still swirling with all the game pieces you need to keep in motion. It’s a short flight home, but you’ve still managed to work yourself into a wonderful headache by the time you get back.

At first, you’re only thinking of the berth and recharge, but when you walk through the door and Ratchet’s there, that’s enough to override anything else you were planning. He’s sitting at his console, but he turns to face you as you come in.

He smiles and gets as far as, “Pharma—” before you pour yourself into his lap and take his cheeks in your hands, kissing him deep and hungry.

It’s sloppy, there’s no elegance to it, no _seduction_. But Ratchet still meets you easily, one of his hands sliding up around your back, warm and secure. His other hand is gentle on your cheek, steadying you, easing you into something less desperate and frantic.

You let him guide you, you dim your optics, surrender yourself, and simply follow where he leads. His hands are on you, placing your knees securely around his hips, caressing your leg, resting soft and careful on your waist. It isn’t a remarkable encounter, it’s over quickly, nothing to tell stories about. But when it’s done and you sit there, kneeling across his lap, draped across his frame, his hands still warm on your plating— You couldn’t have asked for anything better right now.

Ratchet is content to sit there with you. Eventually he asks, “Long day?”

“Mm,” is all you answer, but you press yourself even closer against him.

His hands shift, just enough to wrap tighter around your back. “If you’re waiting to be carried to the berth, I think you’re going to be waiting a very long time.”

You need to pull yourself together. There’s only so long you can do this without making him worry. So you straighten and give him an arch look. “So you’re saying that you want me to carry _you_ to the berth.”

You slide off his lap, get back to your feet, and hover over him, teasing and threatening until he finally nudges you away far enough to stand up on his own. He gives you one sour, affectionate look before he turns for your berth chamber himself. You cut him off, weaving in front of him, loudly asking whether he has any aches that are bothering him, you might know a _doctor_ who could do something about that. You give in and stop when he reaches out to grab your hand and pull you along with him.

You follow meekly enough until you reach your berth, but Ratchet knows you well enough to take that for the teasing it is. He’s smiling as he turns to you, and you can’t help smiling in return. There are so few cycles until it’s morning and your jobs occupy your lives again, all the dangers of political games, a million and one little game pieces to balance. But for tonight, you have Ratchet here, with you, his attention on you and you alone. There’s nothing else here to pull you apart. For tonight, you’re his, he’s _yours_ , and you intend to take full advantage of that for as long as you possibly can.


	3. Chromedome and Prowl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/158652392116/relationship-chromedomeprowl-rating-teen-words)

Prowl wakes up before you do, because he always does. It wouldn’t feel right going to sleep without him there beside you, but the days when you wake up and he still hasn’t left the berth are the days that you worry.

No, he’s sitting out in the front room of your apartment waiting for you to get up, just like usual. He’s reading a datapad, but he looks up the moment you come through the door. You turn to get the two cubes of energon sitting on a side table, to hide the guilty, ugly little lurch you still feel whenever you look at him expecting a face and all you see is a single, staring optic.

You know you aren’t showing any of it when you turn back around, but he still knows. You’re sure he still knows. He’s adjusting to his new claws well enough and takes the cube from you without any trouble.

Prowl waits until you’re sitting beside him before he says, “You’re fine.”

You don’t know what it says about you that he’s doing better with this than you are. You edge over just enough that your shoulder bumps up against his, because you don’t know what else to say. This isn’t as bad as you’re treating it. He’s still _Prowl_ without a face or hands. You’ve known plenty of bots who have undergone empurata and get by just fine. And it’s been weeks. You don’t know why you can’t stop _worrying._

And even though you’re trying not to push, even though you’re trying to be supportive and _decent—_ Even though you’re trying not to push, the first thing you say to him is, “How has work been?”

You wince. ‘Are you still investigating government corruption,’ is what you mean. Are you still provoking all the most powerful mechs on the planet. Are you still doing the thing they’ve been telling you to stop for meta-cycles. Are you still doing the thing that made them take away your face.

Prowl doesn’t bother answering the spoken question. He turns to look at you, and just says, “It’s important.”

“ _How_ important? More important than— What do they have to—” You cut yourself off. You didn’t mean to start this argument again. Especially not right now.

He slips his claw into your hand. You’ve held hands with him for the last time, you realize all over again. You’ve seen him smile for the last time. You’ve been kissed by him for the last time. And you’re still making this all about _you,_ because that’s how selfish you really are.

“You’re fine,” he repeats. “It should be over soon. And then things will be back to normal.”

Normal except for him, he means. Normal except for the way you can’t stop being horrible about what was done to him. No matter what you tell him, he won’t budge about this. And no matter how often he tells you that things will be fine, you still can’t stop worrying. “One of my colleagues said. The Council might be planning on a change in empurata. Just a display for words, no vox box at all.”

He leans into your shoulder. “Then I’ll just have to finish before that’s put into action. Just a little longer. Two weeks. And then you’ll be able to stop worrying.”

When he transforms into his alt mode to drive to the enforcer offices, he looks like his old self. You hate the way you can’t help noticing that. The drive to the Institute isn’t long enough to clear your head. But the work is a distraction. Mnemosurgery isn’t a _new_ field, not anymore, but it’s still growing, with strong government sponsorship and plenty of room for development and innovation.

It keeps you busy, but you’re still sure to ping Prowl over your comms every cycle or so. Nothing that you can even pretend is important, but you haven’t forgotten what it was like when his end of the line went dead and he was gone all night and in the morning— He isn’t always able to answer right away, but he’s been patient with you.

So it isn’t too unusual as the evening starts to roll around and he doesn’t respond to one message. By the second, you’re uneasy. You don’t get a chance to worry about the third, because you get a message straight from the Council, ordering you to report to operating theater 32E for an immediate mnemosurgery. Full shadowplay. And from the moment, from the first moment you opened the message, you knew what the patient’s name was going to be.

You’re almost surprised at how calmly you take it. You’re floating outside your own frame, your spark is frozen in your chest, you can’t think past the message, even as you walk through the Institute’s hallways to the operating theater. You hardly even know how you’re moving your own legs. But you’re calm. And you’re making plans.

It will all depend on how willing Prowl is to _listen._ If he’d just listen to you for once, instead of insisting on doing what’s _right—_ Not the time. If he’ll listen, if he’ll just agree to act out the shadowplay— You’ve done this procedure before, plenty of times, all successfully. If Prowl will only agree to play along for a day or two, you can get out of the city, buy a spaceship, or frag, _steal_ a spaceship—

Too many pieces. You can’t think straight once you get that far ahead. You just need to get him through _now._ If he’ll listen, if he’ll just _listen_ to you, you can protect him. When you slip through the door into the operating theater, your optics go straight to Prowl. He’s already bolted down to the operating slab, his head opened to expose his brain module. You’re glad neither of you has much face to show what you’re feeling.

And there’s even a Council member there to observe the proceedings. Your spark sinks. Twelve-of-Twelve watches you, as blank and expressionless as always. They know you’re his conjunx. They _know_ what they’re doing right now. Oh, Prowl. What did he do? What did he _find?_ But you can’t, can’t just _do_ this to him. You’ll have to make it look right, from the outside. You can explain in his mind and beg him to play along. You can only hope that they don’t send in anyone else to verify your work.

You look Prowl over. It’s only been a few nanokliks since you came through the door, but it feels like you’ve been in the room for cycles. His claws are tapping, and it’s barely perceptible. You don’t know if you would have noticed if you weren’t so on edge. But even though you can barely think past everything— everything else, you can still recognize the old enforcer code he made you learn.

‘Trust you.’

Slow ventilation. You ready your needles and step up to Prowl’s head. You can get him through this. You can still get him through this.

And then Twelve-of-Twelve says, “I believe there has been a misunderstanding.”

You look blankly at him. What is he trying to say? And then you see a figure you hadn’t even noticed step from a corner of the room, needles already extended. Trepan.

Twelve-of-Twelve says, “You aren’t here to carry out a surgery. I’m afraid that you have only been asked here to _observe.”_


	4. Starscream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/163076348841/characters-starscream-megatron-rating-teen)

When you hear about the new revolutionary preaching radical reform on Cybertron, you… do _not_ immediately defect.

You want to. You certainly want to. Any movement that’s anti-functionist has your support just on that basis alone. But then when you begin to hear the ideas this mech is spreading—

You work slowly. You can’t risk catching the notice of the wrong officers. It’s been millions of years of service since you were singled out for punishment—humiliation—but you _still_ feel the pressure of that attention on you, every single day of your life. If it was only a risk to yourself— But it isn’t, is it.

You might not be able to go look up this mech’s speeches yourself. And you might not even be able to demand the other officers tell you everything they know either. But you do have enough influence to kick up a fuss over these disruptions that do keep cropping up, new recruits disappearing into the deserts instead of being shipped out to join your wing, expected supplies vanishing from the shipping docks. You can infer more than enough to understand on your own, but you’re such a loyal, _dedicated_ servant of the government that you demand explanation after explanation even when you’re told there’s no more information to be had.

Every little piece of this mech’s teachings that you hear, every last bit of it speaks to you as _right._ It’s infuriating, how obviously correct his points are, seeing that these thoughts have never occurred to anyone in a position of influence on Cybertron, that there was somehow never a mass realization that things weren’t _right_ with your world. It makes you furious to hear how correct he is, because it draws into sharp relief just how much _wrong_ your government has done.

If you had your way, you would have stolen a flight back to Cybertron on the very first day you heard the first quotes from his speeches. But this isn’t about only you, and you can never, _ever_ afford to forget that.

Thundercracker is more safe right now, but he’ll be harder to reach or protect once you make a move. And he isn’t as… valuable as Skywarp. The Council will hesitate before killing Skywarp. He’s a precious rarity, the only outlier of his kind, which is why it’s so _terribly_ important to keep him locked up and shut away from the sky and— No. You can’t afford to go down that path right now. Thundercracker has more freedom, but the Council won’t hesitate to kill him. Skywarp isn’t at as much risk, but they have him so tightly controlled you won’t be able to even reach him unless it’s a deliberate, planned rescue.

So you plan. You move as slowly as you can stand and lay your foundations as carefully as you know how. There are always, _always_ eyes on you, and not just because you’ve been so _visibly_ marked out as a problem. You throw your regular tantrums over these inexcusable, _indefensible_ disruptions to your life. How are you expected to serve the government when the incompetents supporting you can’t do so much as bring you the recruits you’ve been promised? What _will_ your superior officers say when you report these problems to them? You promise there will be consequences unless this is addressed _immediately._

You’re good enough at being a nuisance that it doesn’t take long for your superiors to look for a way for you to become someone else’s problem.

And given the amount of complaining you’ve done over the disturbances happening planetside, your commanders arrive neatly at the conclusion that you should be sent to Cybertron to wrestle with the problem yourself.

Oh dear, who could ever have seen this coming.

Going through the proper channels means a transfer takes months or years, if it even gets approved at all. But when high-ranking commanders are pulling the strings, you get two cycles of warning that there’s a shuttle for you, and you need to _leave._

You spend that time polishing yourself up. Not for the sake of vanity— Not _just_ for the sake of vanity. Whatever else has been done to you, you still have a beautiful frame, and there’s no shame in admitting that. You still hate looking in the mirror and being forced to see _not-your-face,_ just an optic that _isn’t_ you and never will be— But this is important.

It means you can do some rough patches on your optic. There isn’t much damage, just the little nicks and scrapes that come from being in a war zone. But you’re going into a new environment, you can’t afford to be three-quarters blind until you find your footing. Half-blind will have to do. You _could_ take that issue to the medics, but given the quality of optics they’ll call _good enough_ for empurata victims? This is honestly the best optic you’ve had from them in a few thousand years, nicks and all. You’ll make it work.

When you arrive on Cybertron, you think that what helps more than anything is that everyone else is looking forward to watching you make a fool of yourself trying to handle the problem they’ve been struggling with for so long. You ignore all the little jibes, never acknowledge any of the sad attempted jokes at your expense. They brief you thoroughly on the situation, and it is certainly a complicated issue. You can see why they’ve been having trouble putting a stop to things. It _is_ rather fortunate for you that you have no plans to stop it at all.

Once you get to real quarters again with a real berth and even a console— You _don’t_ look up Thundercracker’s current posting. If you’re planetside, they’ve sent him out to the front. You don’t need to check that in the records and give the government more proof that they should keep you separated.

You don’t need to look up Skywarp’s posting. You know it down to the room. It hasn’t changed in the last several million years.

It’s uncomfortable being in a government building, even after all this time. You still force yourself to lie down for recharge. While you’re failing to sleep, you go over and over the details of your plan. There are still so many things you can’t do by yourself, but you see a way _forward._

In the morning, you don’t put that plan into action. It’s too early, far too early. You need to establish a secure, comfortable power base here before you can begin truly undermining the system. No, instead you play the loyal officer, you organize patrols and raids, order your people to prepare briefings on this and that, every issue of interest, you pull in the mechs responsible for espionage and demand details on how they collect information— Too many things to count. It’s going to take time. But beyond all that, you collect the personnel files for every mech under your direct command and organize private interviews with all of them.

It takes weeks, _months_ to get things in order. And through all that, you have done a great deal of work. You accomplish a great deal. Yet you seem to have made no progress on actually putting a stop to the unrest. Shocking. You’re so _terribly_ disappointed in yourself.

That time does give you the opportunity to review all the information that’s been collected about Megatron yourself. Not that you’re thinking treasonous thoughts, oh no. This is only your _duty_ as a loyal soldier. It’s fascinating. Peace through _empathy,_ he says. Compassion. There have certainly been anti-functionist movements before this one, but none of them had a message like that. Sometimes you don’t think you can _believe_ it in any more than an abstract sense. But you never stop thinking of Thundercracker and Skywarp.

Once you begin pursuing actual results, they’re… strategic. You capture some dissidents, of course. It’s unavoidable. Even the previous commanders managed that much, no matter how inefficient their campaigns were. Your imprisonment rates improve on theirs— marginally. Just enough that you can point to it as an improvement. At least in terms of raw capture counts. Not an improvement in terms of what you can project about the numbers of subverted mechs in the general population, not in terms of the estimated number of mechs in hiding outside the cities, not an improvement in terms of proportional imprisonment. But you don’t think your commanders really need to know _that_ information.

You do make significant improvements on the defection rates from the military. You have… a certain awareness of how an enlisted mech might express dissatisfaction with their lot. An understanding of what moves they’ll make when they’re planning to bolt. You don’t punish them. But you do ensure they’re shipped off-planet, away from any place they can easily escape. You give them another reason to resent the government that conscripted them. You increase the numbers of rebellious mechs at distant military outposts, at the frontlines of the war, wherever they can be stationed. You don’t know exactly when they’ll reach a tipping point. But they will.

Even within your own division, you have some luck exposing the weakest links to outside influence. You are _extremely_ thorough in going through your personnel files. You can’t exactly go about telling your soldiers to defect, not if you want to win the larger game. But it keeps you occupied. You keep those little warning signs in mind, take opportunities to send those mechs to postings with minimal supervision, furthest from direct Council oversight. Some of them stay loyal. But without a mouth, you’re free to smile to yourself every time you hear about another desertion.

Moving so slowly is painful, especially when you can see the way forward. It’s _so clear._ It isn’t much comfort telling yourself that after so long, it will only be a few more weeks, months, _years,_ it’s frustrating beyond words when you’re so close. But it’s necessary. A single wrong step will destroy all your progress, and you’re doing everything you can to lay groundwork for future success. If you can _win,_ every extra moment you take now will have been more than worthwhile.

And it gives you the chance to keep track of Thundercracker and Skywarp. You demand personnel records from the front, insisting you need more mechs, _trained_ soldiers with actual experience. You don’t ever try to ask them to send you Thundercracker. You aren’t that stupid. But you see his name, see where he’s posted, what commander he’s serving under.

At the same time, you requisition use of teleporters left and right— _critical_ espionage business, _highest_ priority, if you interfere, your commanders will be hearing from me directly—It takes time, but you push the limits of the established infrastructure, demanding more teleporters be built at new locations, constantly demanding more and more. When enough officers get sick of dealing with your requests, _you_ aren’t authorized to requisition use of a certain outlier being housed (caged) in a very secure government facility. Your underlings are authorized, not you.

But you’re loud and shrill enough to be given some very detailed information about his mass limits, his range, frequency, et cetera. It isn’t everything, it isn’t a full picture of how they’re holding him. But it’s enough for you to infer the basics of the equipment they have plugged into him. How do you stop a teleporter from running away? Take away his ability to keep himself alive, of course. Once you’re controlling all his vitals from the outside, he’s as good as dead if he leaves.

You doubt the Council has forgotten how hard you fought to be allowed to study science. But you had a knack for it. And there were a few centuries where you thought that maybe, _maybe_ if you studied medicine instead of theoretical science and agreed to be a combat medic, that would be good enough to satisfy them— It wasn’t, of course, and they gave you a very definite refusal. And wrote that refusal all over your frame, so you could serve as an _example._ Using that partial education you were never allowed to finish to help bring the Council down… you can’t exactly say you’re happy about anything anymore. Not these days. But you’re certain it will be immensely satisfying.

Waiting for your _chance_ is the most frustrating part. You keep your forces stretched as thin as you can without your commanders noticing it. But you bide your time, and an opportunity does eventually arrive. You receive word that Megatron is expected to arrive at a remote mining facility to speak to the mechs there. In that sort of industrial sector, even the mine overseers won’t be making an effort to hand him to the government.

Of course, you immediately propose a raid. Not that it will be successful. You haven’t made any real effort in the realm of counterespionage, and you certainly _hope_ your command is riddled with treasonous dissidents. Megatron always seems to receive word of any planned military actions, and even on the rare occasions your forces have managed to engage, none of your soldiers have been able to capture or kill him. You expect more of the same. Until one of your officers raises that point himself and hesitantly brings up the number of raids that have failed over the last few months.

It is sometimes nice not having to worry about controlling your face. You seize on that point and round immediately on your other officers. A raid will do no good, it hasn’t before. Does nobody here have anything else to propose? None of them have ideas that will work? You don’t want to suggest it yourself, you don’t want to draw suspicions at this stage of the game— But then that same officer suggests an infiltration attempt. You really will have to see about recommending that mech for promotion.

The debate over _who_ to send is tedious, but now you control the playing field. This operative can’t be compromised. That one is on another mission. The facility is too remote for a grounder to reach in time, and teleporter use or stolen vehicles will draw suspicion. And you’re able to use all those prior desertions you’ve enabled to question the loyalty of every other mech your officers suggest.

It takes quite some time to corner them. But you’re patient and you have _everything_ to play for. You can see them getting frustrated. After you’ve sarcastically asked if they have any _other_ suggestions a few times, one of them finally bursts out that _you_ could go.

_Victory._

The mech who suggested that you infiltrate the gathering flinches when you turn towards him, but you aren’t angry. Oh no. It’s taking all your strength right now to stop yourself from laughing. You don’t _leap_ on the suggestion. You can’t look overeager. But you make a few cutting remarks about how nobody else seems to think of a mech who’d be able to get the job done. Some more disparaging remarks about the quality of the other suggestions you received. And when you ask if anyone can think of a better solution, none of the officers say anything.

It’s soon. Accounting for the time it will take to fly halfway across the planet— It’s _very_ soon. You aren’t inclined to nerves, but it’s still a struggle not to fret as you go over and over everything that you need to do. Should you repaint your frame? Disguise yourself? No, no, anything that looks like subterfuge, that could draw the Council’s attention. You need to be open about this. You’re doing nothing wrong, only serving as a loyal soldier. You try your hardest not to think that your plans could be set into motion in a matter of weeks, even _days—_ Hope is a lie, it’s always a lie. You do your best not to think about it.

The flight gives you time to review your plan. Unnecessary—You’ve known _exactly_ what you need to do for millennia. And it’s not only self-serving, you aren’t asking for charity. Though you stumble, mentally. Peace through empathy. You’ve been thinking about those words for months. It’s not just charity, it’s about a flier who hasn’t seen the sun in three million years. This is about a mech who’s been bolted for the wall for so long you doubt he can even transform anymore. It’s torture and a slow death. If compassion plays a role in this, anyone would have to admit that.

But it’s better to cover all contingencies. Skywarp is a resource. He’s a valuable resource. Megatron and his people have no access to teleporters unless they manage to steal uses of the teleporters the government controls. That isn’t reliable and it isn’t safe. Relying on those is just asking to be ambushed. _You_ can fix that. If compassion isn’t enough.

Your internal sensors take you most of the way there, keeping you informed about your coordinates and the occasional other flier in the sky. But once you land, everything is down to your optics.

Not ideal. You’ve never been to this mine before, obviously, but you’ve never been to _any_ mine, and you don’t know much of what to expect. It’s easy enough to find the entrance to the mine, given the number of mechs milling about. And from what you can tell, you aren’t as out of place as you’d worried. It’s been hard to get exact details about the composition of the audiences that come to hear Megatron speak, but even at this remote location where you wouldn’t have expected much more than the local menial laborers, you can see brightly painted mechs with delicate frames that were never meant for this kind of work. There are plenty of fliers, and given how impossible the Council has made it to avoid conscription, it’s beginning to look like the rebels have even more military sympathizers than you’d thought.

You do get a number of looks. Even after so long, it makes your plating itch knowing that you’re under scrutiny and not being able to see well enough to tell who’s looking and how they’re reacting. Outwardly, you ignore them all. From what you can tell from the closest mechs, the ones looking at you mostly look first to your wings, then to your optic. And then they look away. None of them challenge your presence.

Once you go underground and the sunlight is cut off, you’re even more blind than you were before. You curse to yourself, but you’re not going back now. And you can’t even get a decent read of your surroundings with your sensors. You know there are miners with empurata, surely they don’t operate this blind— Perhaps it’s that your sensory suite is calibrated for use in the open air, not for these confined, cramped quarters. As the tunnels narrow, you grit your dentae every time your wings scrape painfully against the walls. There must be other sensory applications than the ones you’re relying on, because you can’t imagine anyone can do mining work under these conditions.

It isn’t too terribly long before the tunnels open up into a larger cavern, with marginally better lighting. You’re still frustratingly blind, but your optic is good enough to see the number of other single bright optics throughout the crowd. You aren’t really surprised. But it’s simultaneously infuriating and affirming to see how many of you there are.

There are also a number of larger, dimmer lights that you have to assume are flatheads. You suppose you have to count yourself lucky that you learned how to fall into line before that punishment came into vogue. It is a bit of a shock to see how many of them there are. But you also have to laugh to yourself. Can’t the Council see how they’ve driven their people into Megatron’s arms? You certainly hope they realize, before they die. You _want_ them to know.

You move as far towards the front of the crowd as you’re able. Mechs turn to look and duck your wings as you push past them. You wonder how many of them have compromised optics, and how many direct feeds the Council is getting of your presence here. All perfectly legitimate of course, you’re only on a mission that was recorded and reported through all appropriate channels. This is where you’re supposed to be.

By the time the noise of the crowd jumps to an excited buzz, you’re still not as close as you want to be. When Megatron takes the stage, you can’t make out any more than a large, pale blur. But when he _speaks—_

You’ve listened to every nanoklik of every audio recording that came back to the government. You’ve read every transcript. None of it compares to _being here._ It’s the same ideas you’ve heard him express before. It’s the same plan to mobilize the population of the planet, to push for change with so many numbers that the Council can’t refuse you. But being here, listening to those words yourself, watching—as much as you can—the way he moves across the stage, connecting with the audience. Hearing and feeling that same audience shift around you, urgent whispered conversations, all with the same undercurrent of excitement. You never had any doubts about where your loyalties would fall. But now you know that this is a mech you will _follow._

While he talks, you do your best to keep pushing up through the crowd. You’re at the edge of the cavern, and your wing keeps catching against outcroppings on the wall, but you ignore it and move further forward. You don’t quite manage to look away from Megatron that entire time.

It’s almost a shock to realize you’ve reached the front, and there’s no further to go. You’re still at the edge of the gathering, but now you’re close enough to make out some details. You can follow his body language as he moves, the way he gestures to the audience as he talks. You can see the rough lines of his face, just enough to make out the red glow of his optics. Not quite enough to tell if you’re imagining the way he looks right towards you (at you?) every few kliks.

Once his speech is done, Megatron engages with the crowd. He answers questions, gives advice, even just listens to stories. You lean back against the wall, less transfixed than when it was just him speaking. Given everything you’ve experienced with the Council and your commanders, it’s unspeakably amusing to see the way he’s willing to speak to all these mechs on a personal level.

Even when the answer is so obvious that asking the question is a waste of time—if you’re a lightweight flier stationed planetside with a decent income and your conjunx is an injured construction worker with a damaged t-cog and unusable legs, _clearly_ you shouldn’t try to whisk him away into the wilderness to live out some ill-considered rebel fantasy—even then, it’s remarkable to see the respect and consideration Megatron gives to each person. Even when it’s a mech reading from a flathead’s screen, not even a question, just the story of _why_ he was made a flathead, Megatron takes the time to tell him that he didn’t deserve that punishment. It all makes sense, given his words and philosophy. But it’s so strange and amusing to see a mech actually trying to live out the ideals they supposedly profess.

It takes a while, of course. The crowd starts to disperse soon enough, but you don’t move to follow them. And you also don’t move to ask Megatron a question yourself. You’re not going to throw away your chance to speak to him. But you certainly aren’t going to do it in front of a crowd with Primus knows how many compromised mechs just waiting to report you to the government. Without a crowd to follow back to the surface, you don’t know how you’ll find your way out, but this is more important than that.

And as time passes, you’re more and more certain that you aren’t imagining the way Megatron keeps looking at you. What remains of the crowd is clustering close to the center of the cavern, and you’re nearly alone where you stand by the wall. But his head keeps turning your way. You can’t see well enough to be sure, but you can _feel_ his optics on you. And you’re still trying not to _hope,_ but you’re confident in your plan, you’re confident that this is a mech who will be able to carry it out, and you’re beginning to believe he’ll _listen_ to you.

You’re planning to wait until Megatron begins to leave and follow him, so you can speak in relative privacy. But you don’t have to. Some stragglers from the crowd are still lingering and talking to Megatron, and your attention is still on him— Enough so that you don’t notice the mech coming up beside you until his hand lands on your shoulder. You push away from the wall and turn to face him, getting ready to tell him in very pointed terms never to do that again.

But before you can say even a word, he says, “Megatron wants to talk to you.”

It’s a shock. It’s perfect, so perfect, but it’s still a shock. You’d been idly impatient over how long it was taking the last few mechs to leave, but now you’re frantically reviewing all your points, everything you need to tell him. It’s simple, in the abstract. If the rebels kidnap Skywarp, they’re acquiring a rare and valuable tool, one of immeasurable value. And you, of course, will be infuriated, with so much more _personal_ investment in defeating the rebels once and for all. If they stage Thundercracker’s death, you have twice as much reason to seek vengeance. The Council has had a stranglehold on the things you value for so long— It will be easy to manipulate them into giving you all the soldiers and resources you need, as long as they think you’re aimed at an appropriate target.

And— Peace through empathy. Megatron wouldn’t just be making strategic moves, he’d be freeing a slave and a hostage.

As long as you can promise him victory, there’s no reason for him not to do it. And you can promise him victory. Two mechs are left talking and asking questions. _Only_ two. You run through your files again, the details of Thundercracker’s posting and the rebel sympathizers stationed with him, and even in his chain of command. You go over all the details you have about Skywarp’s location and its security, and what you‘ve been able to infer about the equipment needed to keep him alive until he can be taken to a medic. You have the information to make this work, you have things of strategic value to offer, and. _Compassion._

When Megatron finally turns away from those last mechs and comes to face you, you’re ready to make your case. He steps close enough that you can finally make out most of his face. Your plan has value and your plan will work, it only needs the large-scale coordination that you can’t provide alone.

The first thing Megatron says is, “And should I ask who you are?”

You draw yourself up to stand at attention, wings held high and steady, projecting confidence with every line of your frame. “Air Commander Starscream.”

He nods to himself. You think you can see him faintly smiling. You’re not entirely sure— Perhaps you should just make your case without bothering with conversational niceties—

You still aren’t quite decided when Megatron slowly looks you over. He’s close enough that you can see him looking out over your wings, down your chassis. His optics linger on your claws. You don’t react. When he eventually meets your optic again, you’re trying not to let your impatience show.

But he— You can definitely see him smiling now. Why is he smiling? He laughs once, and says, “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

Even if you had a face, you wouldn’t know how tor react. You’re frozen. You’d almost think you’d imagined it, you’ve almost convinced yourself that you misunderstood. But then he looks down at your claws again, and laughs under his breath.

You feel like you’ve just been knocked out of the air. It feels like you’re made of ice. You don’t— You just saw him speaking to the crowd, nodding sympathetically along while they went on and on about their sorrows. Why—?

This is still an opportunity you can’t afford to pass up. You force out, “I have a way for you to gain access to an outlier, one with a power I think you’ll find particularly useful—”

“Let me guess. A teleporter?”

He sounds unsurprised. _Uninterested._ Somehow, you manage to stumble through the particulars of your plan. He doesn’t ask any questions. He seems more occupied with walking around to your side, just. Watching you. You don’t even think he’s really looking you in the optic, you’re increasingly certain he’s just examining your face. You can’t tell if he’s even listening. Or, you suppose he must be listening, because he waves you off when you begin to go into the details of Skywarp’s abilities. That’s your only assurance that he’s heard a single word you’ve said.

And after all that, Megatron agrees to go along with your plan. It ought to be exhilarating, after biding your time for three million years. It ought to feel like a triumph. It doesn’t.

You hardly even hear the words coming from your own vocalizer as you make arrangements to coordinate with his people through this channel and that one, he can probably have these forces ready by this time, potentially putting the plan into action by that date— It feels like two other people are having the conversation, and you’re only listening in.

Even when the discussion ends, he only leans in close, peering at your face again, and you hear him laugh quietly to himself. He says, “Such a... pleasure to meet you.”

You don’t know what you’ve done to earn the way he says those words.

Megatron turns away, goes back to his companion and a few waiting mechs. They walk towards a tunnel behind the stage that you— _think_ leads downwards. And then he’s gone.

You turn away too. Because what else are you supposed to do? This is an incredible victory, one that you weren’t sure you’d ever be able to win. It would be nice if it felt that way. You peer down the tunnels leading out from the back of the cavern. You feel like you ought to be able to remember at least something of which one you came through, but you’re too numb to think. After a klik, you give up, select one at random, and walk off into the darkness to try to find a way back to the surface.


End file.
